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    Pan and the Twins
    Pan and the Twins
    Pan and the Twins
    Ebook155 pages2 hours

    Pan and the Twins

    By Eden Phillpotts

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    About this ebook

    “The satire is so gentle, the philosophy so devoid of bitterness, the whole story so charmingly poetical, that it is a joy to read it.”
    The Literary Digest, 1922

    “It is a good deal more than classical; it is human through and through.”
    The Outlook, 1922
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSimon & Schuster
    Release dateJul 1, 2012
    ISBN9781440544835
    Pan and the Twins
    Author

    Eden Phillpotts

    Eden Phillpotts was an English author, poet, and dramatist. Born in Mount Abu, India, he was educated in Devon, England, and worked as an insurance officer for ten years before studying for the stage and eventually becoming a writer. Over the course of his career, he published scores of novels, many of which were mysteries. He died in 1960.

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      Pan and the Twins - Eden Phillpotts

      I

      IN THE CAMPAGNA

      DARK athwart the purple twilight of the Campagna there stretched an aqueduct bearing sweet water to Rome. The flight of its arches eclipsed newly risen stars and sprang aloft from among reeds and thickets, where danced the fire-fly and croaked the frog.

      At the foot of a stone pier, huddled together, bruised and suffering from many blows and many wrongs, there sat a ragged lad. His face had been beautiful save for the grief upon it; but it was stained with tears and distorted with pain. The boy was dark-eyed, with a delicacy of feature and a brooding thoughtfulness of expression akin to the sculptors’ Antinous. Now, however, tribulation concealed his good looks, and he wept again at the hopelessness of his position.

      The stars ascended from their eclipse behind the aqueduct and the young moon set; but it was scarcely dark, for another day already loitered behind the mountains.

      Then came a precious shape out of the gloom, and Pan, plodding through the night-hidden Campagna, stood above this miserable lad.

      It was, indeed, Pan himself — the Pasturer, son of Zeus and Callisto. He came, a stalwart shape with shaggy breast and arms, puck-nose, bright horns and genial countenance — man and animal one — with the all-seeing eyes of divinity. His syrinx hung over his shoulder and about his head there streamed a halo of adoring fire-flies, that moved as he moved.

      And what is the matter with you, human boy? asked the god mildly.

      The youngster instantly recognising that august presence, was too alarmed immediately to answer. He fell upon his knees and Pan patted his thick, black hair.

      Why, Arcadius, do you weep in this unmanly fashion? he inquired.

      Very dreadful things have happened, Mighty One, answered the youth, and I cannot forbear to shed tears, for all happiness and hope have departed out of my life.

      At fifteen years of age there is still hope, replied Pan. Relate your tale, and I shall see if you tell it truly.

      He sat down, crossed his hairy thighs and waited for the boy to speak.

      I was slave to Caius Crassus and worked in his vineyards until to-day, began Arcadius. But this morning, as ill-luck willed, I fell into prayer and had set this — your image — upon a stone, and was worshipping before it when my master entered the vineyard and surprised me.

      From his wallet he produced a little figure of Pan coarsely carved on a piece of walnut wood.

      The god examined it.

      Not an inspiration, he said, yet doubtless the artist meant well.

      I will destroy it now that I have seen you with my own eyes, Mighty One, answered Arcadius; but his deity prevented him.

      Keep it, he replied; the puppet will serve to remind you of a day worth remembering.

      I shan’t forget this hour in a hurry, answered the lad. My grief may be forgotten, not my God.

      Proceed with your story then.

      Caius Crassus is a Christian and uneven tempered; but he seldom beats us. Unfortunately, however, while I lifted my prayer, sundry accursed goats, who know you not, strayed in the vines and did much evil. Observing this, my master terribly chastised me — my back is bruised and I am still aching all over. Nor is that the worst, for Caius Crassus cast me out and willed that he should never see my face again. Thus life is ended, and I hope that I may presently die and be no more.

      To pray is good, answered Pan, and to pray to me was not amiss; but to pray to me, when you ought to be working for somebody else, only proves that you have not yet grasped the nature of things. Your prayer to me was uttered at the expense of your duty to Caius Crassus; and such devotion is of doubtful lustre. I heard, however, and I was aware of the sequel. But henceforth do not address yourself to me, when you should be about other business.

      I have no ‘henceforth,’ Great God, answered Arcadius. I do not want to go on living. Life without happiness — there is no charm in that.

      Like all young things, and middle-aged things, and even old things, you are greedy of happiness, answered Pan, and I am the last to blame you; but happiness is a difficult subject, Arcadius, concerning which I will expound the truth on another occasion. For the moment you need healing and consolation. To the broken boy a sound skin is happiness, therefore, so far, be happy; to the hungry boy a full skin is happiness, therefore, so far, feel joy.

      The god lifted his great hand, stroked the bruises of Arcadius and healed them; while delight mantled the lad’s face at feeling himself whole; and then Pan touched the earth, whereupon appeared a cake of wheaten bread, a wedge of honeycomb, four great red plums and a handful of chestnuts.

      He watched Arcadius eat and smiled, even as a kindly mortal will smile to see youth feeding with good appetite; but his countenance appeared to be melancholy and his divine thoughts tinged with gloom. This the boy perceived, for he was an observant lad.

      Sorrow is upon your face, Mighty One, he ventured to say; but I will never make you sorry again. I will be good and worship at the proper time in future, and work hard if I can find a master.

      Sorrow is upon my face, as you declare, answered Pan, for a sufficient reason. To-day though Rome knows it not as yet, there has fallen the Emperor. He expired far off beyond the Tigris after defeating the armies of King Sapor.

      Julian! cried the lad.

      A Persian spear has ended that remarkable life and turned the hour of triumph into mourning, answered Pan. He who supported our altars against the Time Spirit has vanished and an evil day is dawning for the gods, a worse for the goddesses. With Julian’s passing, our temples must presently be shut and deserted; the Christians will pardon, or seek revenge, according to their natures. Therefore I am sad while, with proleptic eyes, I gaze into the future.

      The Emperor Julian fallen!

      Nobly he fell, with his face to the foe, and never man spoke worthier words before his spirit fled, replied Pan. About him assembled Oribazius, his physician, and the sages, Priscus and Maximus, of Ephesus, without whom he travelled not. There came also Hormizdas Lucilian, Sallustius, Jovian and a young centurion of the imperial horse, Ammianus Marcellinus, who in time to come will win fame as an historian of these events. Thus, then, did the dying Cœsar address them, while with lowered heads and falling tears they mourned his fate. ‘I have learned from philosophy,’ said Julian, ‘how much more excellent is the soul than the body, and that the separation of the nobler substance should be the subject of joy rather than of affliction…. I die without remorse, as I have lived without guilt…. I have considered the happiness of my people as the end of government.’ Observe, Arcadius, that Julian, too, thought upon happiness — for others. Though he had been forewarned that by the sword he must die, the Emperor hesitated not to lead his armies against the national foe. And what does he say at the last? ‘I now offer my tribute of gratitude to the Eternal Being, who has not suffered me to perish by the cruelty of a tyrant, by the dagger of secret enemies, or the tortures of disease.’ Nor did Julian name another to follow him in the purple. With virile wisdom he left that great task to the living and allowed no dead hand to weight their councils. ‘As a good citizen,’ said he, ‘I shall only express my hopes that the Romans may be blessed with the government of a virtuous sovereign.’ So Julian departed off the earth and was united with the stars and Apollo, the Lord of Light.

      Pan ceased for a time, and Arcadius considered these great matters. Then his god turned to the lad’s affairs.

      I shall now, he said, relate your history, which it becomes essential you should know.

      I only remember that I had a little twin brother, replied Arcadius, and we were separated when still very small.

      The facts are these, explained his deity. Your father, Marcus Pomponius, a good and kindly man, loved your mother, Aurelia; but she being a daughter of the people and he a patrician, it was not convenient that he should wed her. Aurelia died when you and your twin brother came into the world, and your maternal grandmother, who hated Marcus, looked to it that his children should see Pomponius no more. He much desired to make the world a pleasant place for both of you; but he was prevented from doing so, and though he endeavoured to find you after his great grief at your mother’s death, good care was taken that he should not. He therefore erected a handsome stele to the beautiful Aurelia, who was buried in his own grounds and not among the folk, mourned her with bitter tears, prayed the gods to bless her in Hades, and presently married Placidia, the daughter of Scribonius Spartianus. With Placidia and his mother, the matron Latona, your father now dwells at his famous villa on a spur of the Sabine Mountains nigh Tivoli. And thither you must seek him. Proclaim to him that you are his son, and let him know that Pan has sent you. Should he doubt, permit him to see my gift; then he will doubt no more.

      Your gift is eaten, Great God, answered Arcadius, licking his lips.

      My gift has yet to be given, replied Pan. Briefly, you shall be privileged to understand the speech of all things of the pad and hoof and wing. This will be useful knowledge in the days to come, and such an accomplishment must convince your parent, if indeed your remarkable likeness to your mother fails to do so. But fear not: he will receive you with genuine delight. He has no family, and his wife is a Christian. Himself he worships the Great Mother, Rhea-Cybele, and entertains an affection for me also. Indeed a considerable part of his domain is at my service, and I often wander there and bless his flocks and herds. For the present, farewell. The gods, Arcadius, care not for crowds. Their highest entertainment is found in watching a single body and mind working alone. Thus I shall follow you, and I trust you to remember it and give me nothing but pleasure. Meet me here in six months’ time, when Jovian reigns and Julian lies in his last, long sleep beside the crystal founts of Cydnus. The philosophers will demand that his body should rest in the groves of the Academy; his soldiers will clamour to join his warrior ashes with those of Cœsar in the Field of Mars. Seldom has the dust of a king awakened such competition.

      Arcadius ventured to speak before the god departed.

      Do you know my brother, Mighty One? he asked.

      I do, answered Pan, and it is seemly that you should think upon him. He is become a Christian from force of circumstances, and promises to be a very good one. When you were sold for a handful of silver denarii to Caius Crassus, your twin brother was received into the household of Cassius P. Lucanus. But he liked it not and ran away.

      Shall I ever see him again? inquired Arcadius, and Pan promised that he might expect to do so.

      In years to come you will meet, he answered. And now go upon your way. Enter Rome to-morrow, and in the marketplace you shall see a man with a cart and black horse. Beg for a lift to Tivoli, and his heart will be touched to grant it. From his destination anybody will direct you to the Pomponian lands.

      Grateful Arcadius knelt down, kissed the hoof of the

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